


Sure

by tweedisgood



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Explosion in the metaphor factory, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fill, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/pseuds/tweedisgood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Are you sure?' By which he means that <i>he</i>  is not."</p><p>Written to the prompt 'cold feet', for the come_at_once porn tag fic community on LJ</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sure

**Author's Note:**

> Russian Translation: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12067458

This is caution, not 'nerves'; reason, not fear. There are so many ways this could fail... _I_ could fail. Disappoint him, shame myself. So much study and art to perfect my work; so much neglect of other things. Strong emotions put by, stuffed in a cupboard, the key turned, locked and double-locked, proof against all but this one cracksman. John Watson, liberator. And now they are rioting in the deserted streets of the city that is myself, and there is no escaping them. Fight or surrender; but they wear my face, his face. I cannot strike them down and be safe, ever again. I must lay down my arms and yield to his.

And so I do. Despite the host of gnawing creatures in my belly, I do yield. We embrace. Piece by piece, off comes the armour. Gentle fingers at my collar, tugging at my tie, opening my throat to speak to him, wordless, of wants, of desires, I barely recognise as mine. The snap of studs as they leap to come undone, undoing me, granting me permission to unstiffen, to slump against the open door of my bedroom as he drops to his knees, to stiffen rigid and sudden in my trousers, to gasp, to be... cautious again. Is this too much, too blatant, not tender enough? He smiles; I can feel it twitch across his cheek, there, where he touches me, rests against the evidence that I am, after all, human – man and animal. He rubs his face, then his open mouth, slowly against my prick through the cloth while I buck, shivering, toward the contact. He makes busy stripping himself, bent double, as if he cannot trust to the dexterity of a novice.

In the act of unlacing his boots, he stops. He straightens, meets my eye, draws his lower lip under crooked, yellow teeth – he smokes too much, and he clean broke an incisor ten years ago in a Deptford warehouse, protecting me, therefore his smile, like all else, is mine – and says: 

“Are you sure?” By which he means that _he_ is not. 

Relief, like a summer storm, runs over me, drenches heat but does not quench it. I am not the only one here with doubts. We fall into our familiar roles: I lead, he follows: the sort of following that grants leadership quite as much as recognises it. Opening my own trouser buttons, fumbling at his, making it easier to move, for we are both profoundly embarrassed to be so roused, so eager that we can barely stumble to the bed, I expose more than flesh. I admit to wanting this more than dignity, more than composure, more than reason. Reason is cold and at this moment, this hour, I burn.

We are both still shod. I remark upon it and he laughs and kicks off his boots to cast them under the bed. I will find them in the morning and remember how we were here, thus. He cradles my heels in reverent hands and stokes the high, flinching arch of each foot as he slides off the slippers of Moroccan kid, his gift to me. Our bare feet are warm as we twine about each other, thigh pressed to thigh, slipping a knee between as if to climb each other, all but naked now. Yet we are still standing, hesitant to fall onto the feather mattress, to fly together at last.

“Are you sure?” By which I mean that _I_ am not. 

A kiss is my reward for asking, for not presuming as I too often presume. A kiss is his, for presuming as he too often does not. For he has taken hold of me, is frigging me slowly and exquisitely, has decided as I have, all-too-evidently, also decided. He breaks off the kiss to look down open-mouthed with surprise and welcome to see how I fill his hand, rise purple and crowned from a linen throne. Delving deep, he frees me, cock and balls, from those last restraints, unties strings, lets fall to the floor, urges me to step up, to step out.

I am wearing nothing, nothing but air. I am about to fly. My nest-mate sheds the last fluff of innocence in his turn. He comes to me, showing off a plump rod, rosy as dawn, brown belly and flanks under my fluttering fingers, sturdy as a tree under snow. We thrust upward, straining, melting, feasting on ripe fruit, dripping juice. We dip our heads to catch whispered words of plea, of instruction, of praise and joy. We cry out: one, then another. Mating, we sing. We stretch spread-eagled to give ourselves, body and mind and heart, to adventure, to transformation, to the hunter's sharp spear. We soar. We fall amongst feathers.

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_.”

END


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